


You Might Not be Sane, But You Mean More to Me Than Anyone

by sabriel75



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: thegameison_sh, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabriel75/pseuds/sabriel75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock forgets he's human, sometimes even forgetting he isn't the perpetrator when he fails. Lately though, there is a new voice in his head that can fight all the demons and Sherlock has been listening to it more and more.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You Might Not be Sane, But You Mean More to Me Than Anyone

**Author's Note:**

> written for _Challenge Two_ at the gameison_sh community

She was cut into forty-two pieces. Presumed tortured, raped and awake for the entire ordeal before being filleted.

It had been her birthday. She was only thirteen.

Sherlock catologued the evidence.

Watson puked. Three times.

Lestrade blanched but stood steady by Sherlock’s side. “So? That’s it then.”

He couldn’t have put it better.

Sherlock had known. Of course, he had. He could quote statistics, decode every mathematical anomaly any serial killer adhered to in their crazy ritualistic need to follow patterns, to repeat acts in a sick bid for a moment of peace, to put off the anxiety.

Only so far none had been as obsessive as himself in their need to follow the voices in their head, follow the method of madness or follow the unceasing thrill in upending the norm. Eventually, they all succumbed to hubris. He understands the emotional desperation that leads to a job poorly done, a clue missed, a tell exposed because such genius needs an audience.

It’s frustrating to know most of them don’t know he’s willing to play their game.

Because as sick and twisted as it sounds to the average person, this love of the hunt, adoration for puzzling through seemingly impossible minds of psychopaths, sociopaths and every depraved, deranged, or detriment to the human race makes the best fodder for boredom and keeps his own crazy at bay.

He need not presume; he knows the potential he has, how he isn’t immune to the debate about his humanity… and hates those questioning voices in his head: Anderson’s whining, Donavon’s mockery and even Mycroft’s hedging, a needless act since he can never be bothered with the whole truth at the best of times.

As scary as the truth is though, he knows he isn’t that person. Their accusations, childish attempts to explain him away, a someone who frightens them. Although, now-of-days, Sherlock thinks he’ll survive this round and the next and the next. It’s a strange feeling when feelings are items for the masses, ignorant and stupid as they are. But there you go, he has proof he can behave just as normal as the rest of them.

And yet, even as Sherlock feels at loose end, he hears a different voice in his head, louder than the others lately. A hint of cajole sometimes, definitely edged with disappointment but fueled by a certain affection that Sherlock can only describe as concern and possibly deeper. John Watson refuses to be ignored even when Sherlock’s psyche hates the interruption, the distraction.

He imagines the future too. That’s never been something to concern himself with, but he does. Especially now, with Watson desperately trying to hail a cab and looking devastated. Sherlock should want to stay. There’s a whole lot more to see, to examine. Anderson, the fool that he is, is most certainly bound to botch this if he leaves.

“Go home, Sherlock.” Lestrade stands near, waving the coroner on before turning.

“He needs you more than we do.”

“He’s fine.”

“Shit, Sherlock. He looked like death warmed up.”

And for once, as much as it galls him, Lestrade is right.


End file.
